


A Minor Problem

by fideliant



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Fingerfucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Perceived Child Sexual Abuse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo looks back down at him, his round face flushed red and shiny with sweat. The creases that form in his forehead at the raising of eyebrows do not look like they belong to anyone as adolescent as a mere fifty years of age. “Yes,” he pants, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and grinning. “But I’ll be fifty-one in a few months’ time, if it’s of interest to you.”</p>
<p><i>Fifty.</i> The number is so small it tightens something in the region of Thorin's chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Minor Problem

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a fill for [this](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=19793421#t19793421) ~~excuse to write more porn~~ prompt over at hobbit_kink. Now cleaned up and crossposted here.

“Tell me, little burglar,” Thorin says. “Exactly how much do you know of dwarves?”

Back pushed up against a creaking wall, Bilbo leans forward to kiss Thorin. Their lips brush gently, Bilbo’s parted slightly, Thorin’s spread in a contented grin. The hobbit is rocking up on his toes to close the height difference between them, a concession Thorin accedes to by lowering his head to meet him. He has an arm around Bilbo and a hand curled around the nape of his neck, holding him steady as he kisses him. Bilbo’s eyes flutter, the look in them blurry with rising ardour. “I think,” he says, lowering himself back down, “I haven’t known all that much, not really.”

“So you do know a little,” Thorin points out, nuzzling his nose at the side of Bilbo’s jaw.

Bilbo tilts his head, allowing easier access to that part of his face. His scarf lies askew about his neck where it has been shrugged loose, revealing a swathe of pale, smooth skin from the jawbone down. His skin, by Aulë. It makes Thorin’s mouth water just to look. “A little,” Bilbo confirms, his words beginning to match his eyes.

Thorin turns his face to kiss Bilbo just below the ear — once, twice, then he slips his lips over the lobe of Bilbo’s pointed ear and draws on it, generating more wet contact than suction. It provokes a reaction nonetheless, pulling a low moan from Bilbo as he places his hands at Thorin’s waist in a staying movement and his head falls back to thump the wall. “What little would that be, then?” Thorin asks between tending to Bilbo’s earlobe and trailing careful kisses down his neck.

“That you’re blacksmiths.” A playful lick at the shell of his ear sends Bilbo twitching. Another accompanied by the grip of firm hands stills him, but only just. “Mainly,” he gasps. “Could be mistaken.”

“You are not incorrect in saying so.” He shifts slightly against Bilbo, holding him even more securely as if he might slip away from Thorin somehow. Two of his fingers tug down Bilbo’s shirt collar to expose a sliver of the hobbit’s shoulder to a bite, and Bilbo lolls his head to the other side with another throaty moan. “My people are renowned for our skills at the forge,” Thorin rumbles into the hot skin of Bilbo’s collarbone. “But it is common knowledge. I was thinking more of what you might know about our…innate proclivities. Anything else?”

Face turned to the wall, Bilbo giggles. “That’s pretty much everything. Unless if the practice of romancing Shire gentlehobbits is endemic among dwarves, I daresay it’s all I know.”

Thorin rewards this bit of cheekiness by sliding a palm over Bilbo’s groin, ministering him through the fabric with slow, deliberate movements as he kisses the bottom of his jaw. The squirming tells him as much as the noises Bilbo produces, as does the gradual expansion in his hand and the growing weight in his own breeches. “Is that all,” he murmurs, giving Bilbo a casual squeeze. The gasp this earns is bitten off, still not so loud as to alert anybody else in the other rooms of the Carrock. It is nearly the afternoon and the walls promise little by way of thickness; Thorin casts a look at the door to check that it is indeed bolted shut before twisting back to Bilbo. “Would you like to learn more?”

Bilbo shivers, lifts his chin to accept an incoming kiss. “Yes, I suppose I would. What do you have in mind?”

His other hand tangling in Bilbo’s brown curls, Thorin kisses the hobbit’s nose and then the space between it and his mouth, continuing to grope him thusly. He hasn’t been this physically intimate with anyone in a long while, but the results so far are reassuring enough that he has every reason to go on. “Dwarves can be a desirous kind,” Thorin says, giving Bilbo’s upper lip a sharp nip. “More so where mates are concerned.”

“Evidently.” The teeth ploy is reciprocated quickly, accompanied by the press of an eager groin into Thorin’s hand. Planed against him, Bilbo’s warmth is enticing, delicious, and it’s all Thorin can do not to strip off every last article of the hobbit’s clothes to ravish him proper. There isn’t even so much as a mattress in the room they now occupy, something Thorin had managed to overlook. Though wholly impractical, the wall will have to do.

“It is somewhat accounted for by our tradition,” Thorin continues, his breathing coming out somewhat strangled. “We live long lives, though not as long as the elves. If the fates are kind, we take but a single partner. For those who choose not to or are unable to, well. Is it no wonder that an existence such as that breeds desire?”

“No wonder,” Bilbo seems to repeat, but there’s more to it that Thorin doesn’t hear as he drops to a knee and buries his nose in the bulging cloth beneath Bilbo’s waist to take a deep breath. The heady smell of the hobbit down below is almost too much to take, and whatever Bilbo intended to say is lost in a high-pitched whine that sends a shot of thrill through Thorin.

“I am pleased you agree,” Thorin gasps. “Very pleased.”

“You didn’t even let me finish,” Bilbo complains.

Thorin shrugs, a quick lift of his shoulders. “I have firm belief that actions speak louder than words.”

“Specifically _your_ actions, I presume?”

Good grief, the mouth on that hobbit. The prospect of putting it to better use makes Thorin grin even wider. “You will have your turn, just wait.”

“I should hope so.”

“When we are in Erebor,” Thorin says, mouthing at the faint outline of Bilbo’s erection in the fabric of his trousers. “ _Our_ Erebor,” he corrects himself softly. “I will give you whatever your heart may desire.”

Under his lips, he feels Bilbo shiver. “Anything?”

Thorin looks up to a pair of wide, greenish-blue eyes staring down at him with something like awe contained within them. “Anything,” he confirms.

He doesn’t expect the wicked smirk that curves the hobbit’s mouth, nor Bilbo bending down to whisper in his ear, “If it pleases you then, Mister Dwarf, I desire that you pleasure me with your mouth. Very much so.”

Thorin suppresses a grin, though not without difficulty. To think that he’d once have never believed hobbits to be sexual creatures, let alone so bloody wanton. At any rate, it’s something he finds himself glad to be wrong about as he makes short work of the buttons on Bilbo’s trousers and eases him out with steady fingers. Bilbo’s cock perks up slowly, a clear thread of sticky fluid leading from the partially-uncovered head to the underside of his briefs. Thorin eyes it greedily for a few seconds until it breaks, then an impulse strikes him and puts his mouth to the damp spot remaining on the fabric. He takes a long drag, enjoying the warmth and the faint bitter taste of it lingering on the edge of his tongue.

A whimper catches his attention, and when he lifts his eyes, it’s Bilbo with the knuckles of one fisted hand stuffed in his mouth. The hobbit’s eyes are positively glittering, wide open and rendering nothing else. “You like that,” Thorin purrs, delighted.

Mouth still too full of his own fist to talk, Bilbo nods wordlessly.

“Would you prefer to tell me what else you like?” Thorin asks, framing Bilbo’s hips with his hands and shoving him against the wall. His flushed cock dangles over the waistband of his trousers, ready for the taking and almost begging to be swallowed down. Thorin wets his lips in anticipation, the weight in his pants becoming increasing dense. There will be time to tend to himself later. “Or to let me discover that on my own accord?”

Bilbo takes his hand away from his mouth a shaky inch, the teeth marks visible on his middle and ring finger. “I wouldn’t dream of denying you the adventure,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

It’s precisely the answer Thorin expected. Good that he knows Bilbo this well, he thinks. “I take it that there’s much to find out.”

“Plenty.”

“I look forward to it.” He presses his nose into Bilbo’s groin again, now nothing separating them both, and he lets out a groan when the musk smacks him boldly in the face. Bilbo smells of sweat and something which Thorin labels as _gentlehobbit_ on the spot and tucks away just as quickly; it’s warm and slightly damp where his nose is buried and the side of his beard scrapes stiffening flesh as Thorin inhales just what he needs. He goes a bit lower to nose at Bilbo’s balls dangling below, the wrinkled skin slightly damp to the touch. Goodness, it smells amazing here. He isn’t so sure if he ever wants to leave.

It’s only the jutting of Bilbo’s cock against his ear that makes him turn his attention back to it, and he wraps the fingers of his right hand around it to pull back the skin. Bilbo goes suddenly, impossibly still. There is a dab of precome smearing the head of his cock, and Thorin places his thumb over it to make lazy circles, slicking Bilbo with his own release. He hears Bilbo make a choking sort of sound, the kind made by people unaccustomed to using curse words in any sort of company, polite or otherwise. More precome dribbles out the slit and Thorin stops moving his thumb, choosing to lap it up on the tip of his tongue instead.

Perhaps it is truly as pitiful a sound that Bilbo makes or the possibility that the hobbit could very well bite through his own fist, but Thorin decides that he’s toyed around with the poor creature enough. He licks Bilbo to full hardness with two quick swipes of his tongue and takes him in up to just past the head, allowing it to rest nicely inside his mouth. Experience compels him to suck, to tongue lavishly at the slit. A thud from above informs him that the back of Bilbo’s head has made contact with the wall again, and the moan that rolls down to meet Thorin is one of relief as well as the furthest thing from it.

Smelling Bilbo comes an easy second best to actually tasting him. The salty tang of the hobbit’s flesh leaks into Thorin’s mouth and clings to his tongue, the taste unfamiliar but not entirely foreign. The sight of Bilbo disappearing into his mouth is so painfully intimate it almost makes him close his eyes. He bobs, giving little teasing sucks. Bilbo’s hands scrabble to brace against both of his shoulders. It’s almost like the hobbit is melting into him, which isn’t too far off from the truth, and Thorin takes him a half inch deeper, then pulls off and plants a kiss against the glistening head.

“What I would do to you,” Thorin says hoarsely, stroking Bilbo just the once with his index finger. He loosens his grip and curls his free hand around the hobbit’s bare bum, fingertips barely slipping between his cheeks. Velvety fuzz tickles his palm, and the flesh beneath it is soft and pliable. Bilbo’s hands tighten on him. “If we were in bed together. Do you want to hear?”

It appears to take Bilbo a great effort to keep his eyes open. His breathing has turned shallow, his eyes still alight with undivided attention as he nods.

“I would honour you.” There isn’t enough air for a whisper, so Thorin settles for shaping the last word with his mouth. He traces his tongue over his lips to moisten them and sighs, savouring the flavour of Bilbo, the raw, heady taste of him. “I could tie you up on your knees and have my way with you, over and over again. How would you like to wake in the mornings? To this?” Case in point, he fills his mouth with Bilbo again, taking his time as he pulls off to a fresh trickle of precome.

“ _Oh,_ ” Bilbo breathes, not quite an answer but comfortably leaning towards the affirmative.

“Are you a morning sort of hobbit?” The question precedes a smile and a twist of his wrist, stroking Bilbo slowly from root to tip. When Thorin has his fingers ringed just under the head, he drops his mouth over it and slides back down as far as he can go, lips and fingers moving together in languid unison.

“All — ahh, oh — all hobbits are morning hobbits,” Bilbo gasps. His hips buck weakly, making it only a fraction of an inch away from the wall before Thorin forces him back down again. “I thought…I thought — oh, _my,_ yes — thought you knew that already.”

Thorin shakes his head, unable to articulate a coherent response around the cock filling his mouth. He takes his palm away from Bilbo’s stomach in favour of fondling his balls instead. A tug on each later, Thorin rolls both gently in the palm of his hand and pulls off of Bilbo. “It would seem that I do not know that much of hobbits either,” he muses.

“How much do you know about hobbits?” Bilbo manages to ask just before Thorin reaches up to push several fingers into his mouth. Bilbo startles, head jerking back in surprise as his hands fly to Thorin’s forearm. Thorin pushes in all the more harder and stops shy of fingering the soft tissue at the back of his throat. It’s not so deep as to choke him or cut off his air, but enough that Bilbo’s exclamations are almost entirely muffled into incomprehensibility.

His protests die down only after Thorin slips his lips over his cock and raises a meaningful eyebrow at him. A simple gesture, it is still one that breeds a look of understanding between them. Nothing happens for several seconds, and then Bilbo gives Thorin’s fingers a tentative suckle. Thorin responds obligingly, mimicking the speed, the depth, the pressure drawing on the joints of his fingers. Taking the cue from there follows swiftly, the rhythm easy enough for Thorin to pick up on without delay. At the first scrape of Bilbo’s teeth against his knuckles, he uses his own, a drag of hard enamel along flesh stretched tight.

“I profess to knowing very little, as well,” Thorin says. He lets his fingers rest on Bilbo’s cupped tongue and grins at the moaning noises vibrating down to his wrist. “But I am willing to learn. Certainly there is much about your kind that I must know, now that we are to be together.”

Slumping an inch lower down the wall, Bilbo mumbles something around Thorin’s fingers.

“Starting with you, of course.” He runs his tongue around the crown in a slippery motion and Bilbo lets out a whimper, his thighs visibly twitching. “Your likes, your dislikes. I do believe I haven’t ever asked how old you are, as a matter of fact.”

More mumbling sounds are made, nothing interpretable among them. Thorin withdraws his fingers to give room for the words to take shape and he returns to venerating Bilbo’s cock with his mouth. Both hands encircling him at the base now, thumbs pressing upwards into the soft skin of his balls. He’s close, Thorin can tell; it’s a matter of minutes, at most. “Fi — fifty,” Bilbo squeaks out.

Thorin stops sucking immediately. He lifts his gaze, letting Bilbo slip from his lips as he does so. Faltering on the slight chance that he’s misheard, Thorin has to brush it aside. He knows for a fact that there’s hardly anything wrong with his hearing. After a hard swallow, he says, “You’re fifty.”

Bilbo looks back down at him, his round face flushed red and shiny with sweat. The creases that form in his forehead at the raising of eyebrows do not look like they belong to anyone as adolescent as a mere fifty years of age. “Yes,” he pants, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and grinning. “But I’ll be fifty-one in a few months’ time, if it’s of interest to you.”

_Fifty._ The number is so small it tightens something in the region of Thorin’s chest. He turns his gaze to Bilbo’s spit-slicked cock, still in his grip, and gulps something dry down. _Fifty._ “You’re,” he says, and then he bites his lip, trying to reason his way through to no avail. “Fifty.”

Bilbo smiles a little wider. “Um. Well, yes.”

Unable to hold Bilbo’s eyes any longer, Thorin looks down. The burning feeling in his face is not that of arousal, but rather unmitigated shame. For one long moment, he studies the floor, Bilbo’s hardened prick pulsing between his hands. Then, he lowers it carefully and, with as much dignity as he can muster, tucks the hobbit back into his pants and starts buttoning up his trousers.

“Wha…Thorin —” Bilbo catches both his wrists before Thorin can dress him completely, stopping him with the middle button partially wedged through its hole. “Thorin, wait, wait. What — what’s wrong?”

Thorin looks at him soberly, his head bowed slightly in deference. It’s a poor man’s show of contrition, but he has to start somewhere. Mahal, the things he said to Bilbo, the things he was _doing_ to him. This poor, innocent child who trusted Thorin with his wellbeing. The thought makes Thorin sick to the core. “Bilbo, listen to me,” he says. “You have every reason to be angry, and I know that there is scarcely anything I can say or do that will make up for this, but I am sorry. Truly, I am.”

“Sorry?” Bilbo cocks his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Whatever for?”

With a deep breath in through his nose, Thorin gingerly thumbs the button on Bilbo’s trousers into place, choosing to fix his eyes on it now that Bilbo’s modesty is restored. Or at least whichever part of it that Thorin hasn’t managed to violate already. “I wasn’t aware,” he starts, once again realising his mistake much too late, and mentally corrects. Ignorance was hardly an acceptable excuse for the dwarves of old, and it certainly isn’t one right now. “What I mean is. You must understand that I would never have, had I known.”

“Never have what? Known what?”

“I —” The knot tied at the base of his throat pulls itself tighter. There’s a rising confusion to Bilbo’s voice that makes it exceptionally difficult to allude to any lurid details. His voice, gods. Thorin could kick himself for not listening harder up until now, to the light, guileless quality of it and figuring the obvious out sooner. Then maybe he wouldn’t be in this predicament right now. Maybe he would have at least thought twice before sucking off someone who, by all rights, was only old enough to be starting out with making his first weapon at the forge.

“Thorin.” Bilbo leans down to bring his face closer until he’s close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. “You can tell me. What is it?”

Earnestly given, the reassurance is still nothing close to an amnesty. As it should not be. Thorin isn’t so naive as to expect forgiveness to come so quickly, not for any act as foul as the one he has committed. “I…I touched you,” he mumbles, gently pulling his hands free and rising to his feet. Stomach turning with guilt, he still does not look away. “I put my mouth on you and…and I kissed you.”

Though this should be sufficient explanation, it only deepens the bemusement clouding Bilbo’s face. He finishes buttoning up his pants without looking and purses his lips. “Why, yes. So you did. Quite well, if I might add. I daresay I haven’t had better, but you’re my first, so there’s that.”

_His first._ Well. If there was one thing Thorin had never thought he would be, it was a despoiler of innocence; he would have readily believed that of orcs or goblins or the wickedest of men and dwarves, but not anyone in his company, least of all himself. How far would he have gone had he not found out before it was too late? Thorin isn’t so sure he wants to know the answer to that, though he has a pretty good idea if the horribly inappropriate things he said to Bilbo are anything to go by.

“I should have asked you,” he says, and the words are low and strangled.

“Thorin, you’re not making any sense.”

Everything is silent for a while whilst Thorin tries to get his thoughts back into some semblance of order. The concern in Bilbo’s expression is heartbreaking, and Thorin finally has to turn away. It doesn’t help that he can almost hear an old diatribe of his father’s addressing a magisterial sentencing from so long ago, going on and on about what the dwarves thought of those who forced themselves onto unwitting dwarflings. When he thinks about wanting to shove his cock up Bilbo’s young, virgin arse, he can’t help but picture himself standing in the accused’s dock. It makes him clench his hands so tight that the backs of his nails begin to hurt.

He flinches at the touch of a hand at his elbow, but allows it to remain. Bilbo moves around him without removing his hand until they are face to face again. “Right, there’s something you’re not telling me,” he says, fierce all of a sudden. “I want to know exactly what it is that’s bothering you.”

“It is…difficult to explain,” Thorin says, not a complete untruth after all. Taking advantage of an adolescent is hardly an abstract concept, but he can’t bring himself to broach it. Not like this, when he’s still half-hard in his breeches and his blood has yet to cool, his fading arousal not unlike gold lining the hands of a thief who’s only just been caught in the act.

Bilbo shakes his head. “Try me. We’ll see if I can keep up. Unless if you think I’m too stupid to understand, of course.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Thorin says quickly.

“Then what’s the problem?” Bilbo demands. “I mean, if you’re not in the mood then that’s fine, really, it’s no big deal, I can wait until you’re —”

“It’s not that.”

Something falters in Bilbo’s eyes, the creeping suspicion almost imperceptible if not for the daylight striping across the right side of his face. “Does it have to do with me?” he asks.

“ _No,_ ” Thorin intones, and catches himself for managing to lie through his teeth again. “I mean, yes.”

“Well, which is it?”

Blinking rapidly, Thorin runs through what he is going to say, word by word until he is sure that no other answer will be clearer. “It is you,” he admits carefully, “but not in the way that you’re thinking, I swear.”

Bilbo takes his hand off Thorin’s shoulder and folds his arms across his chest, his eyes continuing to search Thorin. “What do you think I’m thinking right now?”

Gods. “You are…important to me,” Thorin offers in lieu of any close approximation. “It is my utmost wish that no harm ever befalls you, believe me.”

There’s a short pause, then Bilbo tugs his arms back down to his sides. “So,” he says slowly, wrinkles creasing his forehead again, “you think that trying to…pleasure me is harming me in some way?”

Thorin hesitates, then nods. It’s the simplest way to put it, honestly.

“How so?” The corner of Bilbo’s lip quirks. “Are you with the pox or something?”

“ _No,_ ” Thorin bristles, offended. “I do not have the pox.”

“It was just a joke,” Bilbo says, almost to a small smile. “Besides, you’re not exactly being very helpful, you know. I’m taking shots in the dark here.”

Oh. It’s a fair enough point. Thorin shifts his feet listlessly, looking down at them as though they will tell him precisely what needs to be said. “You do not resent me for what I have done,” he mumbles, more statement than question.

Bilbo makes an exasperated sound, and Thorin winces. “I can’t resent you for something I don’t even know you’ve done, can I?”

“You should,” Thorin says miserably, meaning it with all his heart.

A mix of frustration and alarm, it’s the look on Bilbo’s face that brings down all of his walls. “Thorin,” Bilbo says firmly, moving closer to him. “Tell me what it is you think you’ve done to me.”

Thorin does consider it, takes propriety into account before he realises that there’s no easy way to put it. Gods be good, it’s not like things can get worse than they already are, anyway. Another deep breath, then he blurts, “I have despoiled you.”

If this is anywhere near the answer that Bilbo was expecting, he does a spectacular job of hiding it. His eyebrows shoot upward into his fringe, disappearing right as his mouth falls open to an “Eh?”

“I have besmirched your innocence,” Thorin continues, his voice growing stronger, more declarative. There’s a strange sense of catharsis in confessing his sin; it’s brutal honesty, he thinks, hard to stop once it’s been set in motion. “And I cannot return it to you. But mark my words — I swear on my life that I will do whatever it takes to prevent anything like this from happening again.”

All this just makes Bilbo look even more lost. “I’m…not following.”

“Someday, when you are older, you will understand,” Thorin says. His hands hover before Bilbo’s as if to take them, only he decides against it and lets them fall into clenched fists. “Why this distresses me. It was improper to touch you so…intimately. Granted, I did not know that you were so young, but —”

“Young?” Bilbo exclaims.

Thorin looks at Bilbo for a moment, surprised. “Yes. You are fifty years of age, correct?”

Bilbo nods. “For the last time, yes, I’m fifty. Speaking of which, mind telling me how old you are, then?”

“A hundred and ninety-five,” Thorin answers.

Bilbo blinks, clearly thrown, his mouth forming into an uncertain line. “That’s…wow. Um. Alright, so you’ve got quite a few years on me — it’s nothing to be uncomfortable about, is it? And you’ve hardly despoiled me, Thorin, goodness!”

“You —” Thorin glances away, thinking furiously. There has to be a way to get Bilbo to see, even if it’s just a little bit. He digs his nails in again and looks back to Bilbo, trying a new tack. “You know Fili, yes? My nephew and heir.”

“Why, yes. Of course I do.”

“He’s. Well. He’s eighty-two.”

Bilbo tilts his chin fractionally higher, an eyebrow creased slightly. “Fine, yes, good, but I still don’t see —” As soon as he says the words, his eyes widen with abrupt realisation. He looks more his age when his eyes are wide, Thorin thinks. “Wait,” he says, “hold on for a second. Thorin, are you…do you think I’m, erm.” He appears to struggle for the right words. “A _child?”_ he eventually manages.

“Are you not?” Thorin asks in reply, now more than just slightly bewildered.

“Oh, golly, heavens no!” Bilbo shakes his head furiously. “Is that where everything was coming from? My age?”

Unsure of what to believe anymore, Thorin nods.

“Thorin, I haven’t been a child in well over three decades!” Bilbo says, giggling. He smiles, a benevolent gleam in his eyes. “I suppose it’s very much different from dwarves, but I’m reasonably well-aged at fifty years. Hobbits generally are.”

Thorin doesn’t respond just yet as he digests this information. “You’re…well-aged?” he repeats, still not entirely convinced.

“You could say so. Depends on how you define _well-aged,_ I suppose. I daresay gentlehobbits some five years younger than I have already sired a respectable number of children back in Hobbiton!”

The statistic is too absurd, too startling. Thorin can’t help but gawk. “You are capable of conceiving children? Of your own?”

At this, Bilbo blushes a deep crimson. “Technically, yes. Although you might very well have inferred by now that I’d much rather not for…ahem! Obvious reasons.”

“You’re fifty,” Thorin says again, just as helplessly as he had the first time he let it sink in. Everything is uncertain; he doesn’t know for the life of him what to feel.

He doesn’t budge an inch as Bilbo moves to him, _for_ him, and rises on his tiptoes to thieve a kiss. It’s soft and chaste and Thorin leans down into it, containing his disbelief if just to have this for the time being. So soft, so gentle. It turns firm and desirous soon enough, the press of Bilbo’s mouth up against his own like an invasion. He closes his eyes, arms snaking around Bilbo to bring him closer. Bilbo kisses harder still, and Thorin reciprocates in due kind.

Distantly, he registers Bilbo tugging his trousers open with quick fingers, but he can’t parse that past the moment Bilbo’s tongue presses into his mouth, parting lips and teeth and slithering in until it’s sufficiently deep for Thorin to suck on it. Thorin groans, utterly too debauched to be embarrassed, and feels himself harden appropriately. He tries to find a focus point for his arousal, but the foreign tongue in his mouth is everywhere, demanding his full attention with obnoxious, intrusive movements. He follows it all over with his own until he’s panting and groaning into Bilbo’s mouth, aching all over with want so deep it coils in his gut to the point where it becomes difficult to even breathe.

“Tell me, O’ King Under the Mountain,” Bilbo murmurs, popping open the last button on Thorin’s trousers. “Would a wee child be able to do this?” He ducks his head to suck a mark onto the side of Thorin’s neck, so hard that Thorin can feel the ridges of his front teeth. “Or this?” Bilbo slides a hand into Thorin’s loosened trousers, giving his erection a firm squeeze and running his fingers along its length. Thorin jerks against Bilbo with pure carnal need, edging tantalisingly close to rutting like an animal in full heat. He could come like this, he's full aware. From Bilbo’s mouth and friction and the warmth of a smaller body pressing into his own.

“I don’t,” Thorin stammers, then, “this,” and " _unhh,_ " because some small, traitorous part of him is still stubbornly hinged on _fifty_ and _child_ and _despoiler of innocence_ whereas the rest is alight and simply raring to go, and he screws his eyes shut to try and figure out what’s the right thing to do here, which is difficult given that his mind is reeling and his skin feels like it’s _on fire._

But then, oh, oh. Bilbo slides down his body, and before Thorin can do anything else he’s propped nicely on the damp muscle that is Bilbo’s tongue. The first suck has him swaying on the spot, seized with the driving pleasure of a hot, loving mouth on his cock, pulling him in and making his knees knock together. There is no wall to lean against, so he stands unsupported, hands moving to the top of Bilbo’s head by instinct and holding on for dear life.

Bilbo works him mercilessly, sucking and bobbing and tonguing, his clever, clever tongue circling over and over again with diabolical purpose. Thorin tries not to look, he doesn’t think he can take it, but he ends up looking anyway, he has to. Eyes shining with meaning find his for a fleeting second before they return to the sight that has Thorin choking out moan after urgent moan. Now at his hardest, Thorin stretches Bilbo’s lips wide around him, the head of his cock nothing more than a bulge in the hobbit’s pale cheek. Warm breath in his crotch and a hand kneading his balls lightly. When he feels the press of two fingers against his arse before they dip in shallowly, Thorin is certain his eyes roll back in his head.

Then, Bilbo _bites_ him.

It doesn’t hurt as it probably should, and Thorin only realises that he’s coming down Bilbo’s throat when he registers a muffled yelling that sounds an awful lot like himself. The suction on his cock turns into a frantic swallowing, taking each thick pulse down until Thorin is spasming on empty and barely keeping together on his feet. Bilbo sucks a couple more times, laps him clean all over and rises to deliver a wet, sloppy kiss. His tongue finds its place inside Thorin’s gaping mouth again, swollen and redolent with the salty-bitter taste of fresh come.

“Could a child do that?” Bilbo whispers, exhaling noisily through his open mouth. The smell of his breath is the most decadent thing Thorin has ever encountered. He clamps his mouth over Bilbo’s, desperate for more, and Bilbo makes a whining noise until Thorin surfaces for air. “Do you still believe I’m a child, then?”

Rendered entirely speechless, the only way Thorin can answer this is with yet another voracious kiss, rolling into the hobbit until they make bodily contact with wood and there is nowhere left to back away to. He kisses Bilbo as though as he’s going to put him through the wall, grinding against him until he feels a certain hardness protruding into his thigh. Forgoing buttons entirely, Thorin shoves Bilbo’s trousers down with impatient hands, pulling the waistband of his underpants along with them. Bilbo is already hard and leaking, and Thorin can’t get on his knees fast enough to slide the skin back with a firm pump of his wrist.

He gathers up a quantity of saliva and spits, hitting Bilbo head-on before swallowing him down. It’s filthy in excess and a tad over the top, but well worth the way Bilbo lets out a bleat of complete astonishment. When sucking him just isn’t anywhere near enough, Thorin guides the hobbit by the bum to begin a slow thrusting. He controls the rhythm of it and Bilbo follows without any resistance, smothering little mewling sounds around his hand as he rocks repeatedly into Thorin’s mouth. Bilbo’s other hand grips Thorin’s shoulder, finding purchase. A tremble rides down his front, shaking his thighs and making his cock jump.

“You,” Thorin growls once he’s beaten a temporary retreat, “are no child.” With two quick pushes, he parts Bilbo’s thighs and anchors him against the wall with an arm across his still-clothed belly. Coating an index finger with spit and pushing it all the way inside Bilbo earns a series of squeals; taking him in again with a good firm suck turns the squealing straight back into moans.

“T…Th…Thorin,” Bilbo stammers, his voice reduced to a whisper.

Thorin closes his eyes and hums. He angles up with his finger, finding a spot of distinctive firmness and scrubbing at it within the same moment he presses the tip of his tongue to Bilbo’s slit, and the hobbit’s whole body jolts.

“Oh, oh, _oh!”_

The garbled noise that follows is all the warning Thorin needs to ready himself. He catches the first few spurts on the roof of his mouth, swallowing it all down with quick gulps before the rest of it can overwhelm. It’s ends up being too much to take anyway, and some of it spills from the corner of his mouth to trickle down his chin. Thorin finds himself not caring, probably couldn’t even if he wanted to, because Bilbo is sobbing and deflating in front of him and he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to be a part of anyone so much before in his life.

Licking the last traces of come from around his lips, Thorin pulls Bilbo down to the floor to join him there, leaning over to kiss his quivering lips. Bilbo makes one last whimper before returning the kiss, still shaking all over in the afterglow. Thorin lets him suck his tongue this time, chasing Bilbo’s own taste into his mouth and sighing appreciatively. It’s messy and altogether glorious and Bilbo’s buttoned trousers are still hanging about his knees, and Thorin takes the initiative to do them up himself.

Bilbo mumbles brokenly, something about _do it myself,_ and Thorin smiles. “There are things which I am still wont to do for you, even if you are not a child,” he tells Bilbo.

Blinking muzzily at Thorin, Bilbo squints and pushes his lips forward in an impertinent expression. “I think I can handle dressing myself, thank you very much. That and most other things. But I appreciate the gesture.”

Thorin fastens Bilbo’s trousers about his waist and leans on the wall, Bilbo snugged tight against him. He looks to the window, where buttery light is still filtering in through the curtains. It could very well be lunchtime already. “Would you be averse to me feeding you?” he asks on that front.

Bilbo’s mouth twists, then softens. He gives Thorin a weighing look before kissing a small smile into his beard. “I suppose not,” he says after a while. “But only if it’s things I want to eat, though.”

“You are quite fussy with your diet,” Thorin points out.

“So I am. You’ll have to work with that, then. And no baby noises.”

“None at all?”

“Mm.”

“You are a fussy little hobbit indeed,” Thorin says with a soft laugh.

Rolling over to turn his face into Thorin’s chest, the sated smirk on Bilbo’s lips is half-visible at best. “Perhaps you should have considered that before deciding to romance me,” he murmurs.

Thorin considers this, strokes Bilbo’s hair gently with his fingers. He keeps his lips shy of the hobbit’s forehead where they are free to brush skin whenever he speaks. “Perhaps it is the reason I chose to romance you in the first place.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’m afraid a king does not know how to flatter.” This much is true.

Bilbo doesn’t respond to this with anything beyond a snuffling noise, and he settles closer to Thorin like a child seeking comfort. No, not a child, Thorin thinks as he kisses Bilbo again, now that he knows better. A lover. Yes, that sounds about right. They stay on the floor like this for a long while: his long arms wrapped around Bilbo, all fifty years of him, warming the hobbit’s large feet with his up until a summons to lunch drifts through the door and they stand together, Thorin helping Bilbo up, to slip out the room.


End file.
